


Inner Demons

by xikra1648



Series: Oneshots & Multi-Shots From Longer Fics I MIGHT Write [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Avengers: Age of Ultron, Clint Barton's Farm, F/M, Fluff, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, I don't think it's all that gorey, I'm giving these warnings to be safe, Language, Mild Gore, Past Torture, Romance, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Some characters only mentioned, Surgery, Warning to be safe, and it has its place in the plot of the fic, but I wanna be safe, cause I know it can trigger some people, in case you can't guess, kind of, mostly angst, past trauma, potentially a longer fic, rating to be safe, that last tag is sarcastic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 19:57:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19116649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xikra1648/pseuds/xikra1648
Summary: Ultron had left the team tattered and bruised, running to Clint Barton's family home as he once again reprised the risky role of 'team dad.'  Everyone was shaken, the memories of the visions Wanda Maximoff had given were impossible to clean off, like grease on a counter, but nobody was willing to talk about what they saw.  It was deep, personal, haunting, and left some visibly shaken while others kept clinging to composure and hiding behind the walls they'd built up.Everyone was furiously trying to throw dirt onto the grave their inner demons were clawing out of.





	Inner Demons

**Author's Note:**

> I wanna write a longer Marvel fic, but I have a handful of ideas that aren’t exactly falling together all that well. So, until I get everything worked out, it’s a series of one-shots and multi-shots.
> 
> I also have a bunch of different Rea ideas, but I haven’t decided on one.  
> Basically, comments would really help me narrow down which Rea to go with.
> 
> THANK YOU!!!!

# Inner Demons

 

_Don’t.  Create.  The.  Terminator._

To be fair, Tony and Bruce hadn’t created the Terminator when you’d left the lab, taking a few days off to slip away and help Fury with the restoration of the Helicarrier.

No.

They’d created _Ultron._

Who in the hell hears the name _Ultron_ and doesn’t think, _‘yeah, that’s a murder bot.’_

You didn’t know what you were imagining when you first went into the ice, _decades_ ago when it was clear the SSR wasn’t enough and the organization that would become S.H.I.E.L.D was barely even a complete concept, back when someone needed to be put on ice and kept on retainer for the things nobody else could deal with.  You knew _this_ wasn’t what you were expecting, not even when you told Fury to keep you on ice _‘in case of emergencies’_ until he could get the Avengers Initiative officially approved.  You knew the time you were born into would never do you justice, you knew every day you wanted to be something more than just a pretty face would be another loosing battle.  You were willing to take a few days to play _rapid_ catch-up with scientific and technological advancements before going back onto the ice.  It had been your idea to use the powers you’d been given in a nightmarish experience –

 

_You laid frozen, literally paralyzed as you stared at the ceiling of the rushed Hydra lab you’d been dragged to after you were snatched from a refugee camp.  The paralysis came as a blessing, while it did nothing to hide the pain it kept you from thrashing about, something that would prove absolutely fatal considering your throat was surgically cut from your chin to your collar bone.  You didn’t know what they were doing, what they were injecting into your vocal chords, why they were glaring targeted Vita-Rays to your throat and eyes, but perhaps it didn’t matter._

_You’d done so well._

_You thought you had._

_You’d gotten back up, brushed yourself off, and kept serving – helping people – after you’d lost both Bucky and Steve within days of each other.  You’d mourned, you’d made your peace, and you’d gone back to the science that had tucked you safely under Erskine’s wing in the first place.  You’d burned what notes you had on the serum, you never had all of it memorized, and you’d even burned Erskine’s notes.  You’d helped the Commandos, you hopped from refugee camp to refugee camp treating the injured and sick victims.  You lost everything, your parents had disowned you when you refused to be the pampered rich girl married off to a rich boy._

_And you ended up strapped to a table, in a dark room, masked men with scalpels and needles standing over you as you remained paralyzed and further strapped to a table with no ability to scream for help, listening to them refer to you as the **subject** and a **pretty thing** as they teased the idea of further violating you._

_As if whatever they were doing to your throat wasn’t enough…_

_No one was coming for you._

_You had to stay still.  Bide your time.  Let them think they could cut back on the paralytics.  Wait.  Sit through it.  Bite your tongue, bit it off it that’s what it took to stay quiet, just stay fucking quiet.  Then, at night, you’d slip free.  Wrap your throat and slip out.  Die on the cold snowy ground instead of that hell._

_But the scream…the scream had caught even you off guard.  It just slipped out._

_You screamed…_

_And the entire building came crashing down._

 

You squeezed your eyes shut and took a slow breath, breathing in as you mentally counted to ten, breathing out as you mentally counted to ten.  Focus on the present, on the warm mug of honeyed chamomile tea in your hands, even the soft reverberations of the black choker outfitted to treat your throat with barely-noticeable vibrations to assist your vocal chords in recovery when you overused the – literally – explosive scream you had as a direct result of the _nightmare_ you’d relived in Wakanda.

Closing your eyes didn’t help.

You still saw the surgeons hovering over you, your blood splattered on their white aprons and gloves, the pain itself enough to paralyze you if it weren’t for the toxic mixture of drugs keeping you paralyzed but _awake._

You weren’t _stupid._

They’d picked you for a reason.

You opened your eyes, taking another deep breath as you stood on the front porch of the Barton family home.  You felt Clint looking up from fixing a post of the railing with one of his kids, his brow furrowed in concern and an invitation to talk if you needed to.  You just shook your head a little, long hair just a touch damp after your cold shower – Tony had taken up _all_ the hot water – and smiled in an attempt to reassure him before turning back to watch the growing tension between Steve and Tony. 

Steve had taken to busying himself by chopping wood, Laura had mentioned they were getting low and Steve had never been one to let others do the work he could do no matter his state of health.  Tony wasn’t one to be shown up, and it didn’t help that Clint had teased him about using up all the hot water when the dishwasher and washing machine had at least a _part_ to play in that, so he grabbed a second axe and got to work chopping firewood himself.  He was getting agitated with every log Steve chopped through, Tony would never be able to keep up with Steve without the Iron Man suit but he kept expecting himself to.  It was part of the life-long issues he was still dealing with.  For Tony’s entire life Howard had practically preached the gospel of Steve Rogers – when Howard wasn’t blatantly neglecting or berating Tony – and Tony was still struggling with balancing his personal history, and issues with his father, with Steve as a _person_.

It had put Tony in a place he felt like he needed to do _better_ , to be _better_ , to prove that Steve wasn’t perfect, and Steve was put on the defensive as Tony kept poking and prodding the proverbial beast.

You’d managed to avoid that same situation by simply being someone, both for your assistance with the final steps of the serum and later for your role as a literal sleeper agent, that Howard literally couldn’t talk about with anyone but Peggy or Fury.

 

_You escaped it by being a broken little girl.  You conveniently have a use.  One day that will end, and you’ll be left behind all over again.  Bucky left you behind during the war, Steve sure as hell tried before Erskine met him.  You had a convenient use to the SSR.  Then you were left behind once again, a glorified nurse.  You had a convenient use to the Howling Commandos, then Schmidt was stopped and Hydra was forced underground and you were tossed aside until you were turned into a science experiment who wanted to hurt you for keeping Erskine’s formula from them.  You have powers and training that are useful, but if they figure out that you’re just a sad, lonely, broken little girl they’ll leave you behind once again._

_If they see behind the mask, if they see how pitiful you really are, they’ll see you aren’t worth the trouble._

 

Another breath, focus on the tea in your hands, take a sip.  Focus on something else.

You’d made a good call, telling everyone to keep spare clothes in the quinjet.  It was a requirement for Bruce, even if he took off his shirt before _Hulking Out_ it still resulted in a pair of tarnished pants.  For the rest of you…well, you were just learning how handy those spare clothes were.  Tony was a bit too short for any of Clint’s jeans to fit right, Steve’s shoulders _alone_ made an attempt at borrowing a t-shirt literally _laughable_ even if you’d meant something other than _UnderArmour_ when you’d said _spare clothes,_ and both you and Natasha agreed that a borrowed bra – even if it’s your exact size – just never fits right.

You weren’t entirely sure when you’d left your spot on the porch, likely when you were struggling with your own head the last time, but the feel of the grass brushing against your ankles – left bare by your black flats – brought you back into the world.  Unless you figured out a way to snugly fit your cup of tea into the pockets of the denim shorts just peeking out from under your oversized white pullover, you supposed you’d left your tea on the porch railing.

Tony and Steve’s argument had reached a head, Steve still holding one of the nearby logs he was _planning_ on chopping before he just ripped the damn thing in half, and Laura had interrupted before things got worse.  Tony was still bristling as he followed her to the barn, where the tractor was waiting in need of repairs, but he was nothing but genuinely sweet and charming to the woman.

Steve was taking a few deep breaths himself, more like huffs if experience told you anything, as he threw the two halves of the log onto the growing pile before grabbing another and just about slamming it down onto the stump.

“Steve,” you gently announced your presence and noted his reaction.  Your voice had been hoarse since the… _incident,_ and no amount of tea, treatment, or time between uses of your powers was going to get rid of it.  It wasn’t sickly, a sultry alto, but compared to the smooth and silky voice of a soprano you had when you’d parted ways in Germany…it was very noticeable.

He looked sad, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he missed the girl you used to be as much as you did.

“I told you to leave a sketchbook on the quinjet,” you lightheartedly chastised as best you could, arms folded in the sleeves that covered almost all of your hands, smile half-hearted as you struggled to keep your walls up. 

That girl… _Wanda_ …she’d brought out struggles you’d stupidly thought were long behind you.  You’d be able to put up a mask around everyone else, even one that would at least _appease_ Clint if not _convince_ him, but you’d known Steve since you were a rebellious teenage girl sneaking out of Manhattan to Brooklyn to escape yet another party your parents were throwing as the Great Depression literally threatened the lives of everyone outside your family’s circle of ‘friends.’  He’d see _right_ through you if you weren’t careful, if you forgot for even a _second_ that he’s far more clever than anyone else knows.

Steve let out a little scoff of a chuckle, hand still on the hilt of the axe imbedded in the stump as he looked down at it before looking up at you, his little smile falling as he just looked…

You didn’t have time to decipher how he _looked_ before he pulled you into a hug, dwarfing you as he pulled you into a deep embrace that practically swallowed you.

“I’m sorry.”

 

_He should have been there._

_He should have fucking been there._

_He shouldn’t have left you there only to find out – from a fucking file – that you’d been the one to suffer the grudges Hydra held against him._

_You were lying on a table, strapped down and paralyzed as two surgeons hovered over you, your eyes wide and terrified as all you could do was stare above._

_“[Y/N]!” Steve screamed as he struggled, the ropes and chains holding him back biting into his flesh as he struggled to reach you.  You must have felt so alone._

_Fuck._

_**Fuck.**   _

**_Goddamn fucking hell.  
_ **

_He shouldn’t have just left you behind like that, and now you were being haunted and tortured by ghosts he’d left with grudges against him.  You weren’t moving, you were unflinching save for the occasional blink of your eyes that let him know the paralysis was wearing off._

_He left you in a place where you’d have to force yourself to stay still as monsters toyed with your open throat and all he had was ‘I’m sorry.’_

 

If he ever got his hands on the men who hurt you, he didn’t give a damn how old they were.

Tony kept throwing a fit because he _doesn’t trust a guy without a dark side_ , someone without inner demons, he just hadn’t seen Steve’s yet.

The ironic part was, if anyone got a glimpse into the things Steve was willing to do for his loved ones, he wouldn’t be trusted outside a padded cell.


End file.
